[center][h2]Dawn of Blood: Part Six[/h2][/center]


Hoshaf looked down at his hands. His right knuckle was crusty with scabs, and a sharp pain radiated whenever he made a fist. He had smashed it repeatedly in anger that morning, having heard of Antorophu’s suicide. To him, he knew it wasn’t because she didn’t want to be with him, but because she knew she wasn’t clean enough for him, not worthy of his strength; it was that and nothing else. Others had started to become scared of him, he could feel it -- he could see it in their eyes, and they had every right to be, he was strong -- he was the chosen leader. 

He sucked in a breath and let his hand fall, he had been waiting. All around him was flattened grasses, he stood on top of a sandy sloped hill overlooking the tribe of the Opporu -- the Grottu’s southern neighbor. It was a smaller tribe, with tiny pits dug into the sandy bay. Reeds and piles of grass covered the pits and served as sleeping huts for the selka. A purple ocean pushed and pulled at the flat sandy beach, old fish bones and scales scattered about.

Beside Hoshaf stood two of his most zealous followers, their bodies wrapped in the skin of sharks, and in their hands were the pikes of the bloodkin. Blood still covered their fingers, having put down naysayers only hours after the news of Antorophu. Hoshaf’s only regret was how thin his tribe has become over his time spent as chieftain: but today he was going to make it bigger, and stronger, like himself.

“Kirron’s smile on us,” A wrinkled Selka approached from below. He, like most selka, was naked and would have been indistinguishable if not for the patterns of dull purple painted on him from old berries -- a strange Opporu custom. 

“More than just his smiles, Chieftain Jorhuffa” Hoshaf grinned a toothy grin and his zealots chuckled, “Kirron and his bloodkin have offered us tools of strength, and gave us the right to lead.”

“Oh,” Jorhuffa furrowed his grizzled brow, “Well, strength to you, then.” He paused and eyed the weapons with a certain mix of fear and wonderment, “And- and what have we the Opporu done to… well why are you here?”

“The Grottu have been given a purpose,” Hoshaf answered, “We are to unite the selka into one tribe, one tribe guided by one chieftain.”

“But Hoshaf,” Jorhuffa gestured with his hands, “We selka are already one tribe, with Kirron as our chieftain.”

Hoshaf narrowed his eyes, “I don’t know who told you that, but it is a lie. I am the strongest, the Grottu are the strongest, and Kirron and his bloodkin themselves granted us that strength to unite the selka under the Grottu and the Grottu’s chieftain -- me.”

“Are you sure this is about Kirron?” Jorhuffa asked suspiciously.

“What are you say-” Hoshaf scoffed and grabbed one of the pikes with his left hand and shook it, the zealot still holding on, “Do you think I had made this? It is not wood, it is not stone, it is the bones of Kirron’s bloodkin themselves.”

“Perhaps to use in fis-”

“Do you think me stupid,” Hoshaf jabbed a finger into Jorhuffa’s chest, “You are greedy, you want the Opporu all to yourself. Willing to deny holy gifts for it. Guilty.” The zealots eyed Jorhuffa with dangerous intent and the old chieftain stumbled on his words.

“I- this is-! What-- by Kirron!” He slanted his brow, “Leave, this is not the land of Grottu. I will hav-”

“Just you or all the Opporu?” Hoshaf pushed the chieftain backwards.

“None of us would ever follow a leader such as you,” Jorhuffa hissed.

“Then you oppose Kirron’s will.”

“This is not Kirro-”

“And now you deny his chosen,” Hoshaf glared. The scene fell silent as Jorhuffa’s jaw hanged, looking for more words to say. Hoshaf chewed his cheek in thought.

“Go down to the village,” Hoshaf finally spoke, “Talk to your people, and if they feel as you do, snap a stick in half and hold both ends up for me to see. If they do not feel as you do, hold up a single stick.”

“Hoshaf.”

“I will wait here.” Hoshaf’s crazed eyes dug into Jorhuffa. The old selka scoffed and stomped away, but before he was down the slope, Hoshaf called out.

“Jorhuffa.” 

The old selka turned and Hoshaf tossed him a long branch, “Tell them the truth.”

“Oh I will,” Jorhuffa narrowed his eyes as he caught the branch, “I will.” 

Hishaf watched the selka skid down the rest of the hill, leaving two ploughs in the sand. His eyes squinted as Jorhuffa became surrounded by other grey figures. They all began to talk and Horshaf turned to one of his zealots, “Kirron is with us,” he all but whispered, “Yes or no, the Opporu will bend to his will.”

“The others are ready and willing,” the zealot nodded before turning back to watch the scene. In the distance Jorhuffa turned back to face the zealots on the hill. With a satisfied look on his face he held up the branch as high as he could shove it into the air. A smile began to form on Hoshaf’s face, only to turn into a disgusted frown as Jorhuffa threw the branch on the ground and stomped it in half. Other Opporu selka stood beside Jorhuffa, chests puffed and fists clenched. 

“As if he expects me just to leave,” Horshaf’s brow furrowed and his thoughts raced. As if he expects me to lay down, as if he expects Viyoh, Thumfatem and Antorophu’s deaths to be meaningless and without a divine purpose. As if he thinks I’m weak. The chieftain grit his teeth.

“Show them the will of Kirron.”

The zealots leveled their weapons and began to hollar as they sprinted down the hill. From the brush behind Hoshaf the rest of his zealots suddenly bursted out, clubs, spears and pikes of iron in hand. The swarm of Grottu warriors spilled down the hill and Jorhuffa’s face seemed to lose its colour. The army of Hoshaf was almost as numerous as the tiny tribe of Opporu alone. 

Down on the beach some of the selka began to run in retreat while others grabbed whatever was close to them. Driftwood, rocks, sticks, the Opporu braced themselves. They threw stones, some catching the faces and heads of the Grottu, some hitting knees and causing them to stumble, but those who were spared broke the foot of the hill even and scattered through the village.

Screams grew next to the roar of the Grottu as iron weapons slinked and stabbed through rubbery flesh. Crimson flew as thick clubs beat in skulls and hobbled limbs. Jorhuffa was the first to fall when four Grottu ran him over with spears pointed. Though he lay dead on the ground, the flurry of stabs didn’t stop, the sand churning with blood and gore. 

Suddenly from one of the pits, an abnormally tall selka emerged. He wore the purple of the Opporu and in his hand was a notched club. The giant charged, club swinging madly a curdled battlecry on his whiskered lips. Before he could get close, he was hedged by the Grottu pikes, a point sifting through his gut and stabbing at his spine. Another sliced through his thigh, severing his artery. He screamed in pain, only to have a third pike slam through his open mouth and out the back of his head. 

The rest of the Opporu scattered, some being chased down and beaten to death, others mauled by stabbing points, while fewer still actually managed to evade the onslaught. It was only when the sand was pink and crusty did Hoshaf descend from the hill, hands up. His warriors ceased and those yet still alive looked up, eyes missing and teeth knocked out.

“Let all of selka know,” Hoshaf declared, “That the Grottu are the chosen and the strong. All may join our tribe, or perish as is the will of Kirron.”

There was a great cheer that broke the wails of the dying and Hoshaf smiled, if only Antorophu could have seen him now. 

[hider=summary]

Almost to that climax.

Hoshaf meets with the leader of the Opporu, Jorhuffa. Jorhuffa doesn’t agree with Hoshaf and says his tribe won’t join him on his quest of blood. Hoshaf gives him a chance to ask his tribe if they feel the same way, and when they do, he orders them all killed in a bloody battle. At the end he declares, “All may join our tribe, or perish as is the will of Kirron.”

[/hider]